


How to Ruin Your Career as Swiftly and Efficiently as Possible, Or: This Isn't a Road Trip, It's a Goddamn Waste of Company Resources

by electricshoop



Category: Original Work
Genre: Accounting, Candles, Gen, Genre: Spy Road Trip!, Necromany, So many schedules too, so many candles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22334683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricshoop/pseuds/electricshoop
Summary: Oh for- what do youmean, I have to come up with a summary. Please, I'm just the narrator here.This might just be a story about using company resources extremely irresponsibly. Now please. I have a bus to catch.
Relationships: C. & E. (original characters)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	How to Ruin Your Career as Swiftly and Efficiently as Possible, Or: This Isn't a Road Trip, It's a Goddamn Waste of Company Resources

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chet_Un_Gwan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chet_Un_Gwan/gifts).



> This is so self-indulgent, this is the most self-indulgent thing I have EVER written, and I had so much FUN! 
> 
> Happy approximate birthday (I have decided this year it's today), El!! Updates will probably be sporadic, because You Know How It Is, but I hope you like the first chapter!

Please picture this: an accountant's office. Just the way you'd picture any accountant's office. I would hope there's a picture in your head already, but you never know, what with millennials staring at their phones all day long, killing their imagination, so let me add on to that: You walk inside, and in the middle of the room, there is a desk, and on the desk, there is a computer. 

On the computer screen, there is an excel sheet, but that's not for you to worry about, but for the person sitting at the desk. Picture an accountant. No, you're doing it wrong. Dear God, I see how it is, I have to do everything around here. 

This here accountant, my dear, is wearing a green button-up with pineapples on it, but really, I do have to confess, they're pulling it off quite nicely. You can't see their trousers nor footwear, because they're sitting, so don't worry about it. Their badly dyed silver-grey hair (just between us: I think they chose this color because they're prematurely greying) is slicked back into something they think looks aloof.

The tag on their desk says "Employee C/957" because that's how they do things at  _ Eternal Victory Incorporated Ltd. _ , but honestly, I'd go insane trying to remember this going forward, so let's just call them C. and leave it at that. I could tell you what the C. stands for, but they'd be really mad at me if they found out. Company protocols, and all that, I hope you understand.

Now, picture a necromancer. ...No. Not like that. I don't know what your problem is. Let me help you out: They're taller than C., which you shouldn't know, because the necromancer is standing in front of the desk while C. is still sat in their chair, but I like to spoil things every now and then. Their hair is also slicked back. I'll have to check if this is company policy, really, that's two out of two. They're wearing a scarf and sunglasses, even though they're inside (just between us: I think they just want to look as edgy as possible). 

Over their left shoulder, they carry a bag that looks exceptionally heavy. Over their right shoulder, they carry a book that looks even heavier, fixated between a leather strap. I won't go into detail about all the jewelry they're wearing, because my shift's almost over, and I'd like to get this over with. Remind me to talk about that later.

They are tapping their foot rhythmically, a dull thud-thud-thud-silence-silence-thud-thud-thud against the thick carpet. The sound gets lost somewhere between all the shelves full of folders– God damn it. I forgot to mention the shelves.

… There are shelves full of folders.

Anyway. As the tapping has told you already, this necromancer is clearly an impatient one, so without further ado: Their keycard says "Agent E/095", but again, I don't feel like going along with this, so let's call them E.

Jesus, it will never stop baffling me how long it takes to set up a simple scene. Now. Let's get on with it.

"For the last time," C. says, squinting at their computer through their glasses, "I can't work with this. The budgets have been finalized last week, and I sent out three - three! - reminders to check the sheet via email!"

"I was out of town!" E. crosses their arms, glaring - probably, it's hard to tell what with them wearing sunglasses; clearly they didn't think this through. "For work! It's not my fault there's no reception out there in–"

"You could have been in Atlantis for all I care, the budgets are  _ done _ . I'm sorry, but I just can't approve another…  _ ritual _ ." C.'s voice is dismissive; that last word spoken full of disdain.

E. notices, but they know they have bigger things to worry about than an accountant's lack of understanding for something that needs years of study and a lot of skill to master as perfectly as they have, so they let it slip. Instead they take a deep breath. "What am I supposed to do, then?!"

C. shrugs. "We have this new scientist, down in lab 37, sub-basement 4, uh … J/112? They're working on a death ray. If you ask them nicely, they might prioritize it and get it done by–"

"A death ray?! That's it, clearly you don't understand– a– a death ray?!"

"A death ray, indeed. What's your problem with that?"

E. shakes their head, disbelieving. "Where's the … the drama in that, where's the art, the emotion?!" (C. rolls their eyes. Hard.) "Besides, a death ray can't possibly be less cost-effective than my proposal!"

C. gives them a look and adjusts their glasses. They do this very pointedly, with their middle finger. "It is. I ran the numbers. It's the candles. The amount of candles your department needs is nothing short of ridiculous."

"...They are essential for every necromancer," E. presses out through gritted teeth. "No need to be so … condescending about it!"

"And this right here," C. continues without paying their objection any mind, waving at the screen. "You want to rent an entire empty warehouse. For three months."

E. has no idea how to react to that, at first, because the truth is, unfortunately, rather embarrassing, but they still refuse to give up hope to get their proposal through, so after a few seconds, they try for a nonchalant tone. "Well, those three months include preparations, and I'll need somewhere shielded from the wind; our last ritual failed because there was this heavy thunderstorm that ruined all the candles and–"

"The death ray it is. I'd like to kindly ask you to leave my office now, or I'll call for security to escort you."

*

This office is dark. The blinds closed almost completely, the sun setting already. That's how you know this room is menacing, and also that some time has passed; the work day is nearly over. All over  _ Eternal Victory Incorporated Ltd. _ 's headquarter, employees are packing up, preparing to leave.

C. is standing in aforementioned office, watching the clock out of the corner of their eye. They don't know what they are waiting for, but they know better than to complain about the silent waiting. Nobody dares complaining to the other person in the room, a small, portly man around fifty, with a white, purring cat on his lap. I would apologize for the cliché if it was in any way my fault, but it isn't, so I won't. The man is holding a cat, get over it. The metal plate on his desk signalizes his company name to be V.

Minutes pass, and nothing of importance happens. Both people present continue to say nothing. The clock's ticking may or may not get a little louder.

Eventually, the door is being pushed open a little clumsily, with just a little more force than necessary.

"I'm so, so sorry, the–" They sneeze. "--elevator was– oh." They sneeze again.  _ "You." _

C. turns around abruptly, and they stare. They're trying their best to react with some amount of dignity, but their annoyed voice betrays the polite words. "Ah, E. It's you we were waiting for for eight minutes." ..Fine, the pointed words, then.

"Now that we're all here," V. says, his voice a deep rumble that lets both C. and E. stand up a little straighter and turn to face him. "I want you both to listen. There is a mission of utmost importance that I need taken care of." His cat stretches a little before curling back up on his lap. His black suit is full of white hair. Both C. and E. notice that and cringe a little, albeit for different reasons.

E. sneezes.

C. frowns.

V. stretches out one of his hands, and pushes a manilla folder towards the middle of his desk. "You'll find your first set of instructions in there. All further intel will be provided during the next few days."

C. frowns.

E. sneezes.

A second passes, then another, and in the end, it's C. who takes a step forward to grab the folder off the desk. They look at V., uncertain, for a moment, and wait for him to nod before they open it. A single sheet of paper.

_ First set of instructions _ , it reads. C. sighs. They'll never understand why they let interns handle sensitive information.

_ 1. _ , the next line says,  _ Go home and get some sleep. _

C. blinks at the text. E. shuffles their feet next to them, sniffling a little.

_ 2. _ , the line underneath reads,  _ Leave the city at 0600. A car will be provided to both of you. Drive _

They stop reading abruptly as the words properly sink in. With them, a slight sense of panic. Clearly, they must be misreading both the document and the situation.

"Um," they say, and hold the folder out for E. to take. E. does, but they don't open it. Their eyes are so watery that they wouldn't be able to make out the text anyway.

"Um," C. tries again, "Sir, I'm sorry, this must be a misunderstanding. That … I'm here, I mean. We don't … work together."

E. stiffens. Then they open the folder and lift it close to their face. Indeed – they, too, realize now that this document seem to imply–

"As much as it pains me to say it, I agree with this statement," they say.

"Must I remind you," V. responds sharply, "that you are on thin ice. I gave you your third and last warning last week, so you of all people might want to reconsider talking back."

C. cringes a little - they'll never understand how E. can stand there, completely unimpressed by the fact that they get scolded by one of their superiors.

(What C. doesn't know, of course, is that E. would cringe even more – and panic, quite a bit – if they weren't too busy sneezing and telling themself that it's fine, it'll be over soon, they'll be able to leave the office in a bit and the cat hair will be gone.)

"Sir," C. tries again gently, "I respect your decisions, of course, but I don't … do field work."

"How odd," V. says, voice gentle now, a dark murmur. He's still stroking the cat with one hand. "I must have mislead you as you now seem to be under the assumption that I care about your opinion. Please, let me rectify that:  _ I don't. _ Go, do this job, and do it well."

Even E., over the sound of their own sniffling, recognizes this voice as one that doesn't allow for any 'but's. Folder still in hand, they turn to leave the office, C. right behind them. Once outside, they sneeze. Then they look at C. "Aw, shit."

C. quietly glares at them, and if you'll excuse me, I'll miss my bus if I don't cut things off here.


End file.
